On Wagner, Windows, and Not Being Dead
by Mint Pearl Voice
Summary: Upon waking to find herself Moriarty's prisoner, Irene reflects on her next move. Oneshot, spoilers for Game of Shadows. Because this fandom needs more Irene!love.


After waking from a coma lasting several weeks, Irene decides to make the best of her imprisonment.

("Funny, I feel as if I haven't slept at all," she'd said, attempting to blink the bleariness from her sore eyes.

Moriarty smiled devilishly. "That would be the poison.")

She finds her quarters sparse, yet adequate: a piano with a stool, a writing-desk accompanied by an armless chair, and a bed, in which she spends an alarming percentage of the day, coughing or enjoying various nightmares or simply wondering when her limbs will regain sufficient strength to allow her to move.

She requests sheet music. La Boheme seems appropriate, considering that its heroine dies of tuberculosis; if nothing else, this incident will allow her to portray Mimi's death scene with an unprecedented level of realism and pathos.

On his next visit,(did he stay away for longer than usual?) Moriarty brings her the Libestod.

Wagner, Tristan and Isolde; the heroine's lament for her dead love. If this is a sign, she refuses to contemplate his meaning. Instead, she regards him coolly. "I requested 'Si, mi chiamo Mimi.'"

"Really? Hmm."He places the sheet music on the piano, spending some time arranging and neatening it. Finally, he turns around. "My condolences, Miss Adler. Sherlock Holmes is dead."

Irene manages to keep her face expressionless, a testament to her acting training. Her sudden breathlessness has nothing to do with the poison's lung-constricting effects; fever cannot be held responsible for the chill in her limbs. "I don't believe you," she manages.

He hands her a week's worth of newspapers and leaves.

Nearly a day passes before Irene gathers enough courage to read the fatal announcement. Sitting cross-legged on the worn mattress, she examines the paper's texture and color (the advertisements seem wholly plausible, but the entire paper could very well be a forgery,) and runs her sensitive fingertips around the obituary's border (perhaps he's pasted it in.)

Plausibility still looms. Steeling her courage, she scans the article itself. Look for word choices. Patterns of sentence structure. Pay no attention to the meaning of the sentences themselves.

Characteristic adjectives, favorite turns of phrase, leave her chest feeling even more constricted than usual. I will not cry, Irene vows, and forces her gaze to settle upon the accursed thing.

Most of it smacks of flattery. Dimly, she notices herself folding the newspaper, placing it on the nightstand, and curling up into a ball with the covers tugged over her head. Sherlock Holmes was maddening, egotistical, and difficult.

He was also, Irene admits, the only man who ever truly interested her for more than a week.

She refuses to think of herself as "miserable" or "destitute." Doing so would imply that she needed him. However, the words "melancholy" and "adrift" cannot help but figure heavily in her self-conception.

He smelled like tobacco and sweat and she misses his reassuring solidity, especially when her fever spikes and the walls whirl. Don't cry, Irene commands herself. Nevertheless, a few tears slip out.

The next day, Moriarty arrives with her weekly dose of antidote. Irene's world narrows to the tiny glass bottle in his hand; it's really quite pathetic how her hands tremble in anticipation, she observes. If only she could synthesize her own supply of the colorless, bitter-tasting liquid, she would have escaped long ago- however, only Moriarty knows its formula. As usual, her hands shoot out of her own accord. She snatches the teacup and gulps its contents down. Registering the absence of pain as a sensation in its own right, she sinks back against the pillows.

"Did you read the obituary? A bit flowery for my taste, but I suppose the public would find the sentiment touching."

Sometimes, silence is the most frustrating response. Irene stares at him, her smile stating her intention: I'm ignoring you."

Moriarty turns his back on her. "He died attempting to push me over a waterfall. I'm told that a combination of drowning and hypothermia can be quite painful."

Irene's expression remains as fixed and glassy as a doll's.

Later, the following thought drifts into her head: If he's dead, why am I still alive? Moriarty hates loose ends. Even with the deadly serum pulsing through her damaged system, she's a loose end waiting to fray. Settling back on the pillows (it's rather weak of her to spend so much time in bed, but she hasn't yet managed to ascertain anything more comfortable,) Irene reflects upon the situation.

_My death served a dual function: to eliminate my potential as a threat, and to hurt a certain important personage. Therefore, my "return from the grave," so to speak, doubtlessly serves at least one function as well. But what?_

Irene glances up at the mirror on the opposite wall and winces involuntarily. With her sunken cheeks and ashen pallor, she resembles a living corpse. The answer spirals into her mind: to hurt him.

_It's obvious. He is too clever to be killed by ordinary means_. (and beneath that, the echo of an unacknowledged thought: I would never let him be killed by anything.) _Moriarty will "accidentally" reveal details of my continued existence and current location. I shall be rescued in a daring raid and subsequently die from want of the antidote._

With the knowledge that hope still exists stirring within her, Irene's head feels clearer than it has in months. She pushes herself from the bed and begins to pace the carpet, ignoring the wobbly feeling in her legs.

Calculate trajectories. They'll probably have to exit through the window, and the nearest roof is a negotiateable distance away.

Get some men's clothes. Although the floor-length nightgown suffices for wasting away in, its constricting skirt irritates her.

Squirrel away a supply of the antidote, at least enough for a week- that will surely be time enough to synthesize the chemical formula. She can fold a cup from the sheet music (Libestod? Pah! Who needs it?) and hold a few drops of the liquid under her tongue with every dose, transferring them to her improvised container when Moriarty is out of the room. Of course, the pain engendered by her plan will seem nearly unbearable, and she'll have to be careful to not go catatonic again, but it's a risk she's willing to take.

And then… well. Adjust the plan as circumstances permit. She always prefers to make things up as she goes along. A small smile plays on the edges of Irene's lips. She sinks back onto the bed, content in the knowledge that Sherlock Holmes will come to rescue her once again.


End file.
